The Justice of the Pea
by Crowfeeder
Summary: An earthquake in AnkhMorpork releases an ancient evil. Ancient laws manifest in AnkhMorpork as a catastrophe threatens to engulf the city, Vimes and Vetinari find themselves outside the law if they try to help… where is justice? Where indeed?
1. Chapter 1

JUSTICE OF THE PEA.

_An earthquake in Ankh-Morpork releases an ancient evil. Is it the lamia feasting on the undead? Or a lost masterpiece of BS Johnson?_

_Ancient laws manifest in Ankh-Morpork as a catastrophe threatens to engulf the city, Vimes and Vetinari find themselves outside the law if they try to help… where is justice? Where indeed?_

1.

An earthquake will start with a little pressure. In the case of the Discworld, which is held upon the shoulders of four immense elephants who themselves stand on the back of Great A'Tuin, a cosmic turtle, an earthquake is not a matter of pressure but of an itchy shoulder.

As such, a sneeze should never be considered without visions of mass extinction. There is said to be a small religious sect who spend their entire lives with their ears pressed to ground trying to predict the sudden bowel movements far, far below them. This sect has never been found by the brave explorers who would delve deep into the jungles of Howandaland, but then, the reclusive priests did hear them coming weeks before.

Let us move swiftly to the teeming city of Ankh-Morpork. There are some jobs in Ankh that are considered so dangerous, so foolhardy, so stigmatised by struggling society, that even the knowledge that someone you know might consider such a job is so bad you would never talk to them again. It would even be acceptable to sew your lips together just in case you meet them and might be polite out of habit.

Oddly, the gongwallah and raker is not one of these jobs. The gongwallah climbs into cesspits to clean them out, singing about loneliness and how hard it is to find a partner. The raker works at dawn, clearing rubbish of any kind from the gutters in streets before the city wakes up properly. These days most rakers are gnolls who are mostly ignored by city folk. Harry King manages them all, along with the gongwallahs. In The Shades these cesspit cleaners are seen as something to look up to. Children wake up at dawn just to see their little, grubby cart pass by their tiny windows.

The worst vocation to admit to, in Ankh-Morpork, is being a builder.

Ankh-Morpork is a city that was built and rebuilt time and time again. Destroyed time and time again by fire, flood, war or earthquake and on several occasions by dodgy builders. A city that is damaged is like a wound. It must be cleaned and repaired quickly. Builders who repair earthquake damage will use the rubble lying around to strengthen foundations for new buildings or roads, or just built over whatever they found if they were in a hurry (in between the rituals of boiling the tea kettle, sharp intake of breath and muttering whilst carrying out serious mathematics on the back of a fag packet). Then they charged a patrician's ransom for their work.

Over the centuries this art of expensive bodging has made some of the ground harder than trolls' constipation. These tough, hard areas tended to be in the dips of the hills that surrounded the river. Over the centuries some areas became as fragile as ash, these were a thin line between the hard, layered ground that held the river above it in a defiant, waterproof superiority and the actual hard rock of the hills where the rich could afford to build. It was these plots of city where being a builder was a secretive lifestyle, where secret guilds of masons and chippies carried out repairs in the dead of night and at weekends ran charity awareness stalls in attempts to avoid angry lynch mobs.

X X X

Glim Street is old. The cobbles are worn to ripples, looking like ancient dried sandbanks. Glim Street smells of aeon-long nights and new dusks all at once. This is the street were the shop windows were always bright, especially at night. Candles filled shop after shop. Ochre tallow candles hung in rows from their wicks, smelling of boiled down beef fat. Beeswax candles of rolled wax were laid out neatly, their wicks sagging like severed tendons. White, refined wax for the churches and the affluent stood ready. There was even a shop for novelty candles, but lets not go there.

Between the shops were stalls that sold tapers or soaked reeds, at night they were stored in mews, their wares stinking enough to drive the summer mosquitoes well away from the area.

Many years ago some dwarves had opened small shops, selling the sort of hard-wearing sconces or candlesticks valued in tavern brawls by barbarians or heroes. There is even an enterprising dwarf who specialises in black candles, sconces shaped liked bats and candlebra's of entwined snakes and skulls that looked fantastic but were a bugger to get the dust off. His little shop, with its black, velvet curtains and overly ornate window mullions did a roaring trade in mail order from Uberwald and Lancre.

It was early dawn, or late night, the difference depended on what time you had to start working for a living.

On this particular morning Algae Mudlark, a human raker was walking slowly along Glim Street, raking the rank debris to one side, when there was a shudder beneath his feet. It cracked the lime rendering on the walls, showing the shapes of the lathes underneath. The slight shudder left a ripple in the dubious water that ebbed in no real hurry along the street gutter.

For a moment, the candlelight from the windows cast little wobbling shadows across the streets cobbles.

Algae paused as he pulled out house debris, mainly stinking reeds, turnip heads and midden slops. Normally he found a few mishappen candle stubs that could be gathered and passed on for a few pennies, but the night findings were sparse.

He frowned, scratching his leather cap, looking up and down Glim Street. Algae was born and bred Ankhian, inheritently able to recognise either a quick bargain, a chance to see a public spectacle or a subconscious warning of danger. Without a second thought he tossed the rake into his cart of rubbish and quickly left.

As the shake subsided cats were fleeing across rooftops and far away Sargeant Angua sat up at her desk.

'What's that street near Kimbaw Lane with the candle factories?' she asked Carrot. He did not pause in answering. 'Glim Street. It goes over Hedge Lane and Save-All Row. Why?'

'I think we'd better get over there.'

'No need,' he answered. 'Colon and Nobby are walking that beat. They pass along Hedge Lane to get the leftover crackling from the All Night Klatchian BBQ.'

Angua did not need reminding. When they returned the stench was like dragging cow carcasses bathed in syrup through the Watch House. But what she sensed was bigger than the smell and even bigger than the mental image of the city's finest munching on salted crackling with an inch of fat on the back of it. According to Sally de Humpeding the sight of Nobby leaning into the old roasting oven to collect the leftover crackling was enough to drive a barrow-wight into therapy or veganism.

Angua was buckling on her sword belt. 'We have to go. Now.'

She frowned, as the usual hole did not fit. The belt was too tight, it closed on one hole too far out. She did not have time to think about why.

Everyone in the Watch House turned at a distant noise. It sounded like rocks falling off the back of a wagon. The sound echoed off a few buildings too slow to shirk the responsibility and up through the ground.

X X X

In his master bedroom, deep within the ancestral mansion of the Ramkins, Commander Sam Vimes, the Duke of Ankh-Morpork, awoke. The building was undergoing extensive rebuilding work by artisans and craftsmen who had so many robes and secret ceremonies that no one could ever confuse them with builders. It was silent at this time of the morning, even Sybil slept as soundly as only a mother can.

'He's asleep,' she hissed, awoken by the clash of Sam's eyelashes opening. Her tone was clear, Young Sam shall stay asleep so no noise.

Sam murmured, alert to whatever change in his city had awoken him. His soles itched. That was never a good omen.

'I should get up. Something is going on,' he breathed.

'Really? Have you been called?'

He paused. For too long because Sybil rolled over ending the discussion.

Sam lay awake for a while. He could sense a degree of disquiet across his city. Something had happened and if no one had come to get him it was because everyone was too busy.

He had to get up.

He had to be there.

'If you do,' a near silent voice said, 'Whatever is going on will be nothing compared to what will happen if Young Sam awakes…'

X X X

Glim Street disappeared faster than a bad debtor from The Shades.

A long jagged gash gaped where Glim Street had been. Old wattle and daub tenements creaked dangerously, cracks opening and closing with each escaping gasp of heat or air that rose from the yawning hole. Small fires, fed by wax and tallow, lit a shattered scene of confusion.

At first there had been a chain of people ready with buckets of water (or the nearest recognisable equivalent) to throw over any spreading fires that looked as though they had the potential to be interesting. When it became apparent that once Glim Street had crashed into the ground and would not erupt into flame there was a change of heart.

Rescuers had shouted, demanded even, for ladders to be found to seek survivors below. Some civil-minded folk had made ladders of their coats tied together or simply dropped into the glowing void to seek 'survivors' amongst any gold candlesticks.

As is accepted in any society slightly more advanced that Johnny Klatchian, it is the civic duty in an emergency to seek survivors, the lost and wounded. After all, the gods expect a degree of respect for the sanctity of life that they spent so long getting wrong. In time this has been refined, in the same way that a maggoty piece of beef can be boiled down to a fine, yellow wax for candles. The shouts at the top of the hole soon refine to a few whispered calls once there are fewer witnesses before you get onto the serious business of digging around for loot or salvage.

The worst that can happen in an aftershock is being buried alive or actually finding a survivor and having to help the selfish wretch to safety.

X X X

In a well lit room, as long as you realized that any light was in your eyes and not the eyes of the man at the desk, sat the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, Lord Vetinari.

He had spent a few moments watching minute ripples in his glass of water.

It reminded him of a treatise written by Leonard de Quirm regarding the management of wastewater in sewers through an ingenious series of locks and viaducts. As he recalled, anyone following Leonard's treatise would find themselves with a gravity driven tsunami capable of extraordinary slum clearances.

He rang a little bell then continued with his work. Moments later a discrete door opened and Drumknott allowed himself in.

'Good morning, my Lord. I see you have under-slept again.'

'Hmm, yes. I notice there has been an earthquake within the city.'

Drumknott was silent. That was often the best response when he did not have an answer until Lord Vetinari gave it to him. 'When de Worde requests a statement on what the city is doing about earthquakes, please advise him that if out citizenry demand it we will divert an exact amount of city taxes in setting up an earthquake monitoring station. His newspaper is, of course, free to set up any charitable collections if he feels.'

'Very good.'

'Arrangements will need to be made for dispossessed citizens. I believe there is a contingency situation plan.'

Drumknott nodded. Vetinari saw the shadow move and carried on. 'Any guilds affected need to follow guild legislation before asking help from the city. We do not need to spend money needlessly at this stage.'

'Of course.'

'And send a clacks message to Klatch. I believe they usually suffer an hour after ourselves on these occasions.'

X X X

Standing at the mean distance between the All Night Klatchian BBQ and the disaster area, two of the City Watches finest watched the scene with the veteran eyes of men who could easily claimd to have seen most of what life- or the imagination of the Gods- could throw at them.

Corporal Nobby Nobbs pulled his lengthy coat around his thin body. As his fingers struggled with buttons of different sizes he patted various pockets until he found a long strip of blackened crackling. 'It makes yer proud to be an Ankh-Morporkian,' he said to Sargeant Colon through a mouthful of fat.

'Aye, aye. Seeing fellow city folk risk their own safety in these dire, terrible circumstances to help victims of this disaster. It's what sets us apart from cities like Sto Lat and that one in Klatch.'

'Yep, built on very solid ground, those cities.'

Colon frowned, 'I mean uncivilised places.'

'Aren't they built on mountains?'

Colon risked a glance at Nobby, who was making short work of the crackling. Explaining foreign places to Nobby without handy postcards was not easy. 'Let's drop it.'

'And they don't have builders.'

They spat on the ground. For a few moments Sargeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs watched the scene, crunching on crackling, absently brushing ancient soot and black mud from their clothing. Colon looked down at Nobby, 'So, what did you get?

Nobby sniffed. 'A new watch n' fob, all marked silver. One o' Brokeback's foldin' candlesticks an' a ermine lined hat.'

'Nice. That'll keep your ears warm later this year.'

Sargeant Colon couldn't help but notice that it was a fine ladies hat. Mrs Colon had offered him choice pieces of advice whenever he tried to discuss Nobby's clothing irregularities. Most of them were not really practical unless he was a bovine-proctologist.

'You know, Nobby, I've known you for a long time. Have you ever considered matrimony?'

'Eh?'

'Well, a young lady to marry, to give such hats to.'

'But you always tol' me-'

'Now,' Colon said sternly, 'don't let one man's experience detract you from what is a wonderful state of matrimony.'

Nobby considered. 'A state, you say?'

'Marriage, yes.'

'Like the city?'

'I suppose. It has its smelly riversides but then so does life.'

'So who's the patrician? You or Mrs Colon? I mean, I only ask as you said-'

'Nobby.'

'Yes, sarge?'

'Just concentrate on those people walking towards us.'

Both watchmen knew a leaderless mob when it approached. The mobility can normally be separated into people types; the leaders who used the easily led for their own gain, usually to smash up a bar where they have a hefty tab. There were the sheep who knew they wanted to do something but did not know what and often left early. Every mob had a fiery old lady, a rabble rousing ideologist, a food vender and a notorious pack of dogs. Vimes had a way of handling crowds. He would pull aside the leader, crack him over the head and make them pay their bar bill.

This crowd was different. They wanted the City Watch to do something for them.

'I knew this day would come,' cried Nobby, trying to back away.

'Be brave, old friend. We've seen off far worse.'

Nobby was about to ask what when the old lady cracked his elbow with her stick. 'Why aren't you down there?' she demanded in the sort of shriek that gathered people behind her as being in front was not for the meek.

Nobby choked on his crackling, looking to Colon for help. Sensing this shift of responsibility, the crowd turned to stare at Sargeant Colon, who clearly had more stripes just for these situations.

Colon's training leapt in. 'We are waiting for trained specialists,' he explained slowly, raising an eyebrow to insinuate that there was more to this than a humble watchman could explain to civilians.

His smile was swept aside by a stiff elbow beating from the old lady.

'Will you stop that!' he demanded.

'There's a dead lady under Glim Street,' she cried. 'We _demand_ that the Watch investigate.'

The crowd nodded, egging her on with murmurs and nods. They recognized out-demanding when they saw it. The watchmen did not have a chance. This may have looked like a leaderless mob but it was a lot more subtle, it was a mob of common interest standing behind a fiery old lady. If the City Watch were looking after a dead body then the mob could get on with the serious work of looking for 'survivors' without having to share anything.

Sergeant Colon took another rap from the old lady then, preferring the burning hole to her, began to shuffle towards the hole, dragging Nobby after him. He had this sort of treatment at home, he did not need it at work as well…

_(Pt 2 to come- Merry xmas everyone, Shane)_


	2. Chapter 2

**JUSTICE OF THE PEA.**

By SHANE TOMKINSON.

(amended- thanks BigCat-x)

_An earthquake in Ankh-Morpork releases an ancient evil. Is it the lamia feasting on the undead? Or a lost masterpiece of BS Johnson?_

_Ancient laws manifest in Ankh-Morpork as a catastrophe threatens to engulf the city, Vimes and Vetinari find themselves outside the law if they try to help… where is justice? Where indeed?_

2.

Sgt. Colon stood, leaning, over a mud covered figure on the floor. He was unnaturally still.

'How long has he stood like this?' asked Cheery Littlebottom. She had just arrived.

No one was too sure. There were a variety of shrugs, a wave of eyebrows and some hushed, respectful grunts from the five Watch men and women. Deep underground, each person felt the pressure of broken masonry, natural treacle and soft mud bearing down on them. But to Cheri these were just geological wallpaper from a not very attractive decade, the sort of decade which approved of raffia chairs and fondue sets. It was almost like visiting her aunt.

One of the new watchmen had gone back to the Watch House for her, he was known as Eyeball Atkins since he went blind in one eye trying to outstare a gargoyle. As she stomped through the crowds near Glim Street Eyeball had told her what had happened. Carrot and Angua, with half a dozen watchmen, had arrived at the earthquake site in time to prevent any more concerned citizenry climbing into the hole. Angua had quickly found the few merchants who were trapped in the rubble of their shops whilst Carrot had easily organized their rescue, he even found a wagon to load recovered merchandise onto and a lingering thief to hold the reins after he checked the thieves Guild membership card to ensure the wagon might be legitimately stolen. It wouldn't be, Carrot had that effect on people. He had calmed down an old lady who had lost her mob and rescued a litter of kittens stuck on a teetering wall.

It had been a typical Ankh-Morporkian disaster, that is, a lot of fun for everyone except those the disaster happens to. That was, until Carrot had found a deeper hole. Eyeball Atkins could tell it had been made by a tumbling house, punching its way through a century old layer of previous buried city. Dank air rose but the footprints of many people were easily seen.

Collecting lanterns and candles, a few of the watch went in to find the more tenacious 'rescuers'. Almost immediately they had found their comrade, immobile in a small chamber with a sputtering candle. Sgt. Colon was so still he made rock look jittery. In fact, here in this hole, far below the streets of Ankh-Morpork, the rock did seem a little jittery, nervously wondering if it could cope with what was suddenly resting on it.

'Where's Nobby?' Cheri asked.

'Gone to get help,' muttered Angua. 'Carrot is bringing him back.'

Cheri nodded, looking for a crime scene. 'So why am I here?'

Sgt. Colon managed a squeaking noise. If he had been an animal and Cheri was a doting, naive and strangely empathic child, she might have responded to his message 'I'm stranded deep underground on something very, very dangerous. Get help. Whatever you do, don't tell mum,' with something more sympathetic then 'Eh? Speak up!'

Colon's mind staggered as he tried to make his feelings known without actually releasing his breath. He was even keeping his sweat in. Cheri decided to search around him, seeking the clues, letting the surrounding scene sink in. Something was here. Something that was so immense that even Sgt. Colon had seen it. It had to be bloody obvious.

'Nobby must know,' she muttered to herself as she moved around the sergeant. There was no point in asking him any questions, he was taking the stoicism of the moment to the extreme.

Retrace the scene, Vimes had once told her. Angua could do that several days afterwards by smell. Cheri had to see in her mind the sequence of events that had led to this frozen moment. She moved to the broken archway of the tunnel and looked into the chamber. At least there were a dozen heavy candlesticks here, the scene was well-lit.

'Why were they down here?' she asked, already knowing the answer. The candlesticks were solid silver.

Between Eyeball Atkins and Angua, Cheri got the story. Colon and Nobby had wandered into this room, after being cornered by citizens who expected them to act like the City Watch, looking for a body. Cheri raised her eyebrows. No one cared about dead bodies, they were part of the city ambience. Then she understood. If the Watch were busy, there would be no one to stop the looting for at least half an hour. She followed their steps through the black mud.

There was something in the mud under Sgt. Colon.

What was it? She leaned over Colon's knee to look into a cold face.

A woman lay there.

She was stiff, proud, almost regal. She lay deathly still.

Cheri was about to lean forward to wipe some mud from the face but a guttural, deeply hidden shriek from Colon stopped her.

Cheri looked up. Colon was waggling his eyes at what was beneath him.

Looking down she saw a sword in the hand of the woman. Poised, and somehow, looking ready to slice into Colon. She was laying on her back, her outstretched right arm holding the sword that was half hidden in the mud. Colon was standing over the arm, looking down.

His gaze was riveted on the sword, with a broken tip.

Etched along the blade was writing, right up to the sheared off tip. Deep, scored words. There was no doubt that these were words that were taken seriously.

_"Justice of the Pea"._

Stark words. Old fashioned, invoking… something… Cheri could not put her finger on what, but she felt a chord strike within her. This was ancient magic, prehistory magic. It was sword magic and if there was one thing that a dwarf understood it was… eating rat? Okay, she thought, if there was two things a dwarf understood, it was eating rat and mining. Cheri stopped herself. Dwarves knew a lot. One of the many things they knew were swords, proper swords, pattern welded and honed to perfection, as hard as flint and thrice as fast as a waiter presenting a bill.

Cheri looked at Sgt. Colon. He would not have seen the words, unless he had stepped on the blade itself.

The woman had a blindfold on. There were some words on the blindfold, but these were lost in the mire. Her other arm was buried in the mud and her robes were…

Cheri stood back, her hands on her hips, tutting as she realized what lay in the quagmire then snarled at Colon.

'It's a statue! Look at the robes, they're made of bronze- damn good bronze too! Look at that verdigree, you could put that on toast and eat it.'

'We tried that,' said Angua.

'Oh?'

'Yes. I mean, telling him, you know, not actually eating the stuff.' She cocked her head. 'Here's Carrot with Nobby.'

There were a few sounds from the tunnel, mixed in with the concerned cries of citizens seeking salvage being herded out by the Watch, that were easily identifiable as Nobby.

'I almost 'ad 'elp…'

'Yes. Me.'

'No, real 'elp… you kno', a wizard!'

'Nobby, what are you talking about?'

Carrot was dragging Nobby the last few feet into the cave where everyone waited. Angua leaned back, assaulted by the rancid stench of BBQ and tobacco.

'Are you okay?' Cheri whispered. Angua nodded, unsure. She should be able to ignore the smell, it just seemed so encompassing, it ransacked her nostrils and charged into the pit of her stomach. Angua nodded again, trying to concentrate on the statue.

'Sorry, sarge,' muttered Nobby. He couldn't look at his friend.

'What is going on?' demanded Cheri.

Nobby pointed to the feet of the statue. 'I saw it! Just as the sarge was stepping over 'er.'

'What? What did you see?'

Nobby's face staggered under the weight of the conflicting words and emotions that tried to escape being used. 'Just look, you'll see…'

Cheri moved around to have a better look at where he pointed.

Then she moved back, quite quickly for a dwarf in steel heels, her face bleached in shocked surprise.

'It's one of _his_…' sighed Cheri.

'Carrot! Don't go near it,' hissed Angua. Her eyes were dimmed but she could sense the scent aura of each person in the tunnel. There was a definite change from disquiet to worry, now it was fear. It was catching. It had something to do with the half buried statue. The only person unaffected was Carrot.

Carrot held out his hand for a lantern, then advanced on the statue.

'Don't worry, Colon,' he offered, resting his palm on his friends back as he looked down. 'Let's just see what we have… oh dear…'

Carrot controlled his survival urge. His entire body tried to jump back but his skin stopped it getting very far. He knew that he had to be there, to help his colleague.

But the words were there, visible through the black mud, embossed in a metal plate.

_B.S. Johnson._

OoOoO

The Monks of Cool live in a secluded Rimwards mountain range, it would be accurate to say that their monastery clings to an extremely exclusive mountain range. Even the gods were on a waiting list for available crags. Every dawn arrived behind a flight of cranes, their gentle passage over bright green willow trees accompanied by a cool jazz sax solo. Slow light passed over waiting monks who sat on chrome loungers and as each day begins they decided if this day will be cool or not.

It is said, by ancient sages who should know better before committing ideas to papyrus, that these monks controlled the destiny of thousands across the Disc with their decision each morning.

The Monks of Cool would argue that this was so not the case.

Over immeasurable centuries, through trials of the mind and body, the Monks of Cool have striven to achieve pure equality, not neutrality, by always opposing each action. For a Monk of Cool to dance across bending willows in deadly combat with demons, their uniquely named sword a blur of stunningly choreographed moves, another Monk of Cool will be tied up, shin kicked mercilessly then tipped over the side of the mountain to get to the bottom as painfully, comically and clumsily as possible. As the battling Monk would never utter more than a sigh or a quiet word, the opposing Monk usually screamed profanities the whole way down.

Over time, through ingenious and very cool disguises, the Monks of Cool have built a library that has listed everything found on the Discworld. It is a simple library of a million ledgers marked 'cool' or 'not'.

One bane of the library has always been cities. Especially sprawling, dirty and poorly built cities. No prizes will be offered for which city causes the most debate amongst the Monks of Cool. And so, after many years of avoidance, a Monk must travel there.

Months ago preparations were begun. Disguises considered and inventive yet uniquely named weapons secreted into walking canes and travel picnic cases. Two Monks will carry out the test of Ankh-Morpork. As one walks to the city, another must travel an equal distance in the opposite direction seeking cool or not.

oOoOo

The heavily engraved gold jar rolled about of its own accord, only for a few seconds. When it did stop moving, it felt as though the air had stopped as well. There was a definite expectation in this room as though someone should begin laughing insanely or screaming in lost, horrified terror.

Two men, members of the Thieves Guild who had avoided the Watch, were frozen where they stood. Moments before they believed the gods had blessed them. In the remains of a crumpled old tower, sinking into the morass of a silted black river, under another layer of crumbling city, they had found a rotting chest. Both men recognized the signs; ancient tower sinking soon to be lost for all eternity, revealed by an earthquake, found by two gimlet-eyed thieves. It was wassname, you know. Fate.

The iron bands of the chest were a brown stained memory on the spongy wood. It crumbled with a single good blow. As the chest collapsed a ragged roll tumbled out, the rags sloughing like old skin.

All this descriptive work was lost on the thieves. What fell out was solid gold.

Then it did the thing that blessings of the gods shouldn't do. It let whatever was inside it out. The tower echoed with an exultant hiss and the rush of an escaping wossname, you know. Evil entity.

A sense of displaced normality seeped back into the tower. The gold jar lay on the floor. The two thieves blinked and stared at each other. A moment of quiet reflection passed, hurried along by a definite lurch as the tower was given a friendly nudge into the silt by the weight above it.

'Well?' said Mr Anchorage, his eyes stuck to the open jar. 'Do you think we should tell someone?'

Mr Blancmange blinked, turning to look at the other thief. Mr Anchorage was a tall, thin and slippery fellow. In the guild he was a hooker, he even had his pole with him, the bottom of the hooking pole was wet with mud and silt.

'Tell them what? We found and opened a heavy, gold jar. It acted as though possessed, then stopped. We heard what might-'

'Or might not!'

'…Or might not have been a hungry sigh then a sibilant laugh of the damned. Then silence.'

Mr Anchorage thought things over. He looked at his friend in the cool glow of their miners lamp. Mr Blancmange was a footpad with a difference, he had a good head on his shoulders. It was almost as though all the sense he had tapped out of others over the years had found its way into his head. 'It does sound like trouble, doesn't it?'

'Oh yes. Exactly like trouble. So whose fault would it be?'

Mr Anchorage had no problems with that answer. He pointed at the still jar. 'Whatever was in that jar, I wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley. No way… what?'

Mr Blancmange was staring at him. 'Who opened it?' he asked. 'The wossname? Let's call it a Soul Casket of the Unnameable, eh? Who opened it?'

Mr Anchorage had no problems with that answer either. 'Um, we did.'

'Ergo?'

'Bless you.'

'I mean, who opened the Soul Casket of the Unnameable that released some _thing_ that sighed and will cause a huge, unimaginable amount of trouble. Who, should they be the sort of down-at-heels, low-level types who would typically do such a thing in ignorance, opened it?'

'Us?'

Mr Blancmange nodded, continuing. 'An unimaginable amount of trouble, which will all be blamed on those who opened the jar…'

Mr Anchorage went paler than he already was. Alabaster looked grubby in comparison. 'Oh bugger…'

Mr Blancmange scuffed forward. He eyed the shadows, his ears straining, then he quickly seized the gold jar and immediately dropped it. Crouching back, his arms raised against an attack that did not happen, the heavy man leant forward to pick up the jar.

'There is only one thing we can do.'

Mr Anchorage watched the jar. 'Move to Uberwald?' he guessed.

'Good thought but no, we melt this down, change our names _then_ move to Uberwald.'

The tower ended their conversation with a definite squelch as an entire level sunk into the silt. No more needed to be said. Both men fled into the tunnels having avoiding falling into the black, muddy river.

Had they stayed they may have seen a boatman approach. From his dark ferry he watched the last stones of the tower sink from sight and memory. A minute was shaved off time as he waited. No one appeared at the shore.

Death pulled a timepiece from his robes. This was a special timepiece. There were only a few left like this. They had certain rules to follow. Creatures this ancient expected a boatman on the black river.

Gold sand was still trickling.

'OH BUGGER,' he swore, turning the boat around. 'WHERE HAS SHE GOT TO NOW?'

oOoOo

Several hours later Lord Vetinari was looking across the rooftops, or at least those that could not move out of the way of his gaze, from his palace. It was an amazing feat, but as heat rises out of a badly insulated house, so do small acts of guilt. To the eyes' of the Patrician many of the old, proud houses immediately below the palace seemed to be doing their utmost to inch away these days, like hiding behind a taller cousin in a family portrait.

Vimes had just arrived, showing a remarkable sense of prediction that Vetinari would like a word.

A pall of greasy smoke still hung over where Glim Street had been. Vimes had caught up on the reports at the Watch House. His only complaint had been that he had not been called sooner but that was the price to pay for rising up the ranks, he told himself and made a mental vow to make sure that it did not happen again. Then he had walked to the palace, knowing that Vetinari was probably going to ask him to solve the problem of providing candles for the city under some ducal responsibility he had found.

Vetinari stood by the window, sipping from a glass of hot water with lemon. He frowned at the roof of the courthouse. Vimes waited, glancing about and noticed quotes from several builders were on the patricians table already, although he knew better than to read any details.

'Have you ever noticed that the roof of the courthouse rises to a flat apex?' Vetinari finished his tea and lay the cup to one side.

Vimes nodded. Naturally he had not, though he knew that he would notice the minute some bugger might be sitting up there.

'Hmm, always interested me, that flat space,' murmured Vetinari.

Vimes moved to the window to look. Now that he thought about it, he knew where Vetinari meant. It was a small flat area, probably for a patrician long since deposed. It was unlikely that a statue of a god was ever there. It would be a terrible slur to the capricious nature of all the other gods who would no doubt do all in their power to ruin any trial. Yes, Vimes nodded, that empty space was ideal for the patient assassin to sit and wait for someone entering the court with the kind of testimony that might be unfortunate for others.

'There used to be a statue there.' Vetinari gave him a careful smile.

'Oh? Of who?'

'Of whom, of whom,' murmured Vetinari. 'Of Justice. It vanished they say, on the day the courthouse was opened.'

'Ah, so, its loss means we are lawless.'

'No. Law and Justice are _very_ different. We both know that.' Vetinari had closed his eyes, he allowed a little smile. 'Anyway, whilst you are here. What do you know about the Ankh Waxchaundelers, Tallowchaundelers, Lanterners, Candelstycke-casters and Glimsmen Act?'

Vimes forgot the courthouse. He had the sense of a trap closing in on him.

'Will I need my Watch badge or the hat with the feathers?' he snarled.

'The hat. Please don't let me detain you any longer from your duties. Drumknott has prepared a synopsis of the act for you to read through,' he paused, tapping his cheek. 'I do believe Lady Sybil has the full version in your library. She did say so, when we spoke recently.'

Sam's eyes said all they needed to. With a sharp salute he turned and stamped out of the office. In the corridor Drumknott was waiting, he held a file ready which he presented to Vimes. 'Now this-oh!'

Vimes tore it from his hand then stopped, looking back at Drumknott he muttered a thank you. It was not the secretary's fault. Once outside, Vimes lit a cigar and bent back the cover of the folder. There were various sheets of the legal mumbo-jumbo that lawyers liked, a notated street map and some notes about the act Vetinari had mentioned.

Some words leapt out of the page. Sam Vimes nearly dropped his cigar. He re-read the words, 'including the Ducal properties of Glim Street and divers trades.'

He owned Glim Street. As a kid, he could remember scraping the spent wax from the stalls as they were stored at night, hoping for enough to make a candle for his mum.

He owned Glim Street. The shops and merchants were his tenants. According to the street map he also owned the surrounding factories of vats for rendering tallow or boiling honey frames, even the halls used by wick winders were his.

Looking back at the palace he wondered, not for the first time, how much more Vetinari knew about him than he did.

Still, time to go and see his street, he thought.

oOoOo

End of two. I hope you enjoyed. Chapter three to follow.


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